


Retribution to Redemption

by JJ_Campbell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Campbell/pseuds/JJ_Campbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a war-torn world, a woman sets herself on a blazing path of retribution; but when a curse malfunctions, she is placed on a journey where she ultimately finds her redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any canon characters or situations in the Harry Potter Universe; nor am I paid for this. I just play in their world in no small thanks to Rowling's generosity.
> 
> Warnings: Story content contains strong language, violence, and graphic sexual scenes. There are a few references to suicide in the beginning chapters, but I tried to keep them as vague as possible.

She awoke gasping for air, her hand covering the pulsing scar that touched her collar bone and disappeared beneath the top of her ragged pajama shirt. Panting, she threw the blankets off her body, the cool air hitting the sweat she had accumulated, causing her to shiver. She ran a hand through her matted hair, slim fingers getting trapped within its confines, as she attempted to regulate her breathing. It took several minutes, but she finally managed. Her body exhausted from whatever she had just witnessed: dream, nightmare, night-terror, whatever worked. 

She had been having the same repetitive dream for the past two weeks now, always the same. Blurs of faces, laughter, and warmth. Then it was dark, pain, and the overwhelming smell of putrid death before she was consumed by darkness. She shuddered. She hadn’t felt that kind of fear since she was tortured in the Malfoy Manor, bleeding and on the brink of death when her friends had rescued her. She remembered waking up two weeks later, weak and shaking with the after-effects of multiple Cruciatus curses. Lucky her. Once again she shivered.

Climbing out of her makeshift cot, warm toffee colored eyes glanced towards a lone picture frame. It sat on the broken cement window seal, alone in the faint moonbeams that broke through the grime-stained windows. Inside stood three teenagers, smiling and laughing, by a lake she knew quite well. The tallest among them stood on the left with brilliant red hair, his fringe hanging in front of his crystal blue eyes. Her gaze flicked to the far right where a boy with the craziest hair she had ever seen and sharp emerald eyes hidden behind round-framed glasses stood smiling up at her. They each had an arm wrapped around a petite brunette who giggled and shook her head at the boys’ antics as they pranced around her. She smiled forlornly down at the young girl portrayed in the moving photograph. It was difficult for her to remember what happiness felt like nowadays. She certainly knew what oppressive misery felt like. 

With a heavy sigh breaking through her chapped lips, she let a finger trail over each of the boys’ face. “I miss you guys so, so much.” She whispered, the familiar burn of tears stinging her eyes. “I wish you were here with me…” a bitter laugh escaped. “Well, maybe not, considering the world has fallen to utter shite. I hope you’ve both found peace, that you’re with your families and our friends…I can only await the day when I am able to join you both again. I’m sure there’s no one keeping you out of trouble up there, hmm? Bless your mothers’ soul.” She smiled as the two boys winked at her. “I had that dream again. To be honest it’s buggering the ever loving shite out of me. I have no idea what it means.” She sighed and ran a hand down her face, “They feel familiar…like memories of some sort, but different. It’s like I’m reliving our past, but not how it really happened. I don’t know. I guess everything happens for a reason, yeah?” She paused in thought, lips pursed. “Do you think I’m still here for a reason? I don’t see for what. It’s not like I was any good to you guys. Smartest Witch of the Age.” She snorted, “What bollocks.”

She pulled the broken picture frame from where it sat and brought it closer for inspection. “I know I say this every day, and it’s not like you can actually respond, but I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help. I would have given my life to save the both of you, you know? At least then you would have each other, yeah? You wouldn’t be alone, like me…always alone.” Another bitter laugh escaped as she replaced the frame back on the sill. “Yeah…”

Shaking her head she stumbled over to the bathroom and turned the makeshift shower stream on. When she had first found this hideout the bathroom had been so utterly disgusting, bile had burned her throat. Mold and dirt had caked the floor of the shower, some unknown substance – all she knew was that it had to go – had been clogged in the drain – she was positive whatever it had been had still been moving. The sink that stood adjacent was broken, but the water pipes still worked so she made do. After spending a good four hours using spell after spell she figured it was good enough to prohibit her from infecting herself with some new form of Plague.

After removing her sweat-soaked pajamas, she stepped under the blistering heat, allowing it to loosen her tense muscles. Carefully, she leaned her forehead against the cool tile and closed her eyes. Her tears mixed with the water as she began to remember the events that followed after the war had been lost. The Order had been defeated nearly two, no three, years ago. She was the last one standing and had warrants out for her capture on every available surface in both wizarding and muggle London. Apparently she was the victim of a psychotic break and if seen, local authorities were to be notified immediately – not unlike how they handled Sirius’ infamous escape from Azkaban. Highly dangerous, they said. She sniffed. Indeed. One would think they’d come up with something a bit more original. The tossers.

She didn’t know how long she stood under the water for. Her thoughts were lost in the past. Images of Harry, her best friend – her brother, being slain by Voldemort during the Final Battle at their beloved Hogwarts. Ron and his family being publically executed outside the fallen Ministry in a makeshift gallows – Voldemort had thought it a fitting punishment as they so aligned themselves with both the Muggles and Muggleborn. Her Professors being magically pinned into a mock pose of the crucifix on the outer stone walls. McGonagall being the hardest for her to see in such a ravaged state. Remus, Tonks, and their darling son Teddy had been captured four months later by none other than Fenrir Greyback, his Alpha. It was upon the next full moon, that Remus was locked in a room with his two beloveds. Needless to say, Remus took his own life the next morning, but only after Fenrir Greyback was no longer amongst the living. More and more her thoughts began to descend into a downward spiral. Before long, she found herself sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest. 

She shook her head, willing the tragic images to disappear, but no matter how hard she tried, they remained to haunt her. Remind her of her failure to protect those she loved. One goddamn horcrux! That’s all they had needed! One missed horcrux and the entire world fell to hell. All because she was too stupid to realize the snake-faced bastard would catch onto their schemes and create a new one just before the Final Battle took place. For months after she had searched for the blasted thing. Researched countless volumes – dark, grey, and light – for any spell or charm that might aid in the search. To no avail. She had failed and because of that her entire life was down the theoretical fucking drain. All of her friends were dead. All of her Professors were dead. Even her parents did not escape notice from the Death Eaters in Australia. She knew she had Snape to thank for that. The bloody traitor. There was no good in that greasy dungeon bat as so many Order members declared. She, like a fool, had always stuck up for the often-times malicious man no matter that he considered her an insufferable know-it-all. No, there was only self-interest in that vile man. If ever she met face to face with him again, she would not hesitate to Sectumsempra his arse to kingdom come. 

She groaned as she slammed her head back into the tile. Sighing, she stared up at the ceiling and decided to focus on her reoccurring dream. What the hell did it mean? Why was she having this dream now of all times? She bristled internally at having such a profound lack of knowledge as of late. Gods, there were days she wished Dumbledore was still among the living. He had answers to everything it seemed. How he did was questionable, his methods even more so, but nevertheless he would have been an absolute godsend. Fucking Snape. She really would kill the bastard if she ever saw him again. It was his fault, all of this. He was the reason she didn’t have her old Headmaster here to throw theories off of or have a simple, enjoyable cup of tea with to prevent her from going backarsed crazy.

Deciding enough was enough, she retreated from the cooling water and toweled herself off. Stop the pity party. This isn’t you talking, it’s the bloody survivor’s guilt. Pull yourself together! She grumbled at her internal little pep talk. As if any of that was worth it anymore. Her eyes slowly found the small knife she always kept on the sink counter. Her fingers gently tracing over the smooth, cold metal. There were days she would grip the knife in shaking hands, her sorrow completely taking over to where she wished she could just end it all. To let go. She had no reason not to. It’s not like the bastards out there wouldn’t take joy in the fact – eventually finding her decaying corpse. It’d be relatively painless if she had the balls to do it. Other days, however, she felt positively repulsed with herself for even entertaining the idea. What would her friends and family think? Nothing positive she was sure. That knife represented weakness. Her weakness. She could not afford to be weak, especially with how things were today. So, no, she refused the thought of ending her own life. She let the blade remain there to remind her that if she was going to die, she was going to bloody well die taking as many Death Eater scum with her as possible.

No, she would not, could not, give up.

Hermione Granger would have her retribution.


	2. Chapter 2

With a flick of her wand, her chestnut curls were dry. Unfortunately, she had never found a spell or potion that could quite contain the frizz she was so known for – without spending endless hours – but it did dampen it a tad. Thankfully it no longer resembled some horribly maltreated dog and, instead, looked more like a wild, rampaging bush with slightly smoother curls that tumbled down to the middle of her back in no organized fashion. Yes, she knew she needed a haircut, but when was one to find the time during her ongoing fight for survival? 

Once she had tamed the beast, she stared at herself in the remaining shards of the shattered mirror. Through bits of graffiti, she could see that her eyes, heavy from sleep deprivation and malnutrition, were framed with nearly purple bags. She had lost nearly two stone since the Final Battle, with having to ration and whatnot, and it especially showed in her face – she was pretty sure her cheek bones could cut diamonds at this point. She looked gaunt, sickly…dead. It was more than just a bit alarming, hence why she rarely looked at her reflection anymore. She was simply the shadow of the girl – the woman – she had once been.

As she tossed the towel to the floor, she traced her various scars with an index finger. The one that pained her this morning was slightly flushed, and continued to pulse every now and again. She had received this abominable beauty when the Order’s last remaining hideout had been discovered. She and her remaining comrades – Luna and Neville – had tried fleeing their attackers, each disapparating to different areas. Hermione had been hit with a slicing curse that had torn open her chest from her collar bone down to the tip of her right breast just as she disappeared. 

The minimal healing, and lack of dittany, had caused the wound to fester. When she was able to finally heal it properly, it was three days later. The skin surrounding the wound had blackened, yellow pustules forming along the seam – and the stench. Now, Hermione was never one to consider herself the squeamish sort; but, Gods, that had been absolutely disgusting. The white mark now remained as a hideous reminder – not that she cared very much, as she wasn’t one to overly worry about vanity.

As she waited in their appointed meeting spot – two days, seventeen hours, and forty-three minutes to be exact – Hermione had begun to worry for her friends. It was as she was gathering her things – tears in her eyes – prepared to leave for another location that Neville had shown up. His clothes were practically shreds dangling from his too-thin frame and his thigh was bleeding profusely from some sort of cursed wound. She did what she could to heal him, being able to do more for him due to her slightly relieved stress levels, as they waited for their remaining friend – their lover. Unfortunately, they were to find out the next morning that Luna would never show. Voldemort had captured her. Just like everyone else Hermione ever crossed paths with. 

Clearing her throat from the rock that seemed to be lodged, she continued her self-exploration down to her stomach and traced the gash that began under her left breast and trailed down to the start of her right hip. Fucking Dolohov. She made sure that bastard died screaming for the Gods during the Final Battle; and if she was completely honest with herself, she enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that had filled her as she watched the last ounce of blood leave his shriveled corpse. She knew, subconsciously, that was probably a very concerning reaction to killing someone – especially with a background such as hers – but she couldn’t find a bit of energy in her to care. He was only the beginning of her very long list of people who would eventually die by her hand – well, wand – she wasn’t physically superior by any means. 

Hermione then stared down at her left forearm. Across her thin, pale skin were sunken red-purple letters that had been carved into her by a cursed blade: MUDBLOOD. Yeah, well, who’s here to have the last laugh you fucking psychotic bint? Merlin, she had been absolutely high on joy when she witnessed the one and only, Molly Weasley, curse the bitch right during the Final Battle. Never before had she seen such ruthlessness in the woman – nagging everyone until their ears bled, yes – but never would she have guessed that such a bloodthirsty harpy survived in such an obsessively happy woman.

Hermione knew she was fortunate to have survived such a bloody war with only three major scars – well, four if you counted the very thin, faint white line that decorated her throat like some form of dainty necklace. She had other, much more minor scrapes and burns all over her body. Each from skirmishes throughout the years, but she knew she deserved those. They were marks of her carelessness. Of those times when she had let her guard down one time too many. She was no longer that girl. That girl who tried to play by the rules and refused to use whatever means necessary. No. That girl had died the moment she had watched her best friend take his last breath in that damned court yard. 

Just as she was stepping from the bathroom, her eyes caught a brief glimpse of a colorful tail wrapping around her left hip – the image, not unlike hers had been moments ago, was fractured, glinting back at her in multiple pieces. She smiled. Before her rather unattractive mug shot had been posted everywhere, Hermione had made the decision, as both a dedication and a fuck you to the Fates for giving her such a shite path in life, to have images that reflected her loved ones permanently painted on her back by a muggle tattoo artist. She mentally validated this reasoning – of course the old Hermione fought against the idea – by telling herself that if her family couldn’t be with her physically, then at least she would always carry a bit of their memory with her. She tried to convince herself that she was never truly alone, but the idea of it never seemed to stick. She knew Sirius would be ecstatic over these new developments, wanting to compare, and glad that she had finally removed the broomstick from her arse. 

Sighing, she stepped back into her ramshackle bedroom, stepping over fallen bits of brick and cement, and pulled on her overused pair of jeans and a bulky Chudley Cannons sweatshirt she had uncovered in Ron’s belongings. She slipped on her trainers – socks were forgone as the last pair she owned practically crumbled to dust when she last attempted to wear them – and held her wand tight in her hand. She approached the door, grabbing Harry’s invisibility cloak, and began to unravel the wards she ensured were set every day. Once done, she grabbed the weathered brass knob and turned, the door creaking on its rusted hinges. A small grimace tugged at the corner of her lips as the rather loud sound in the all-consuming silence echoed around her. Sending out a quick Homenum Revelio, and detecting no cause for concern, she cast a disillusionment spell on herself and made her escape.

As she exited the abandoned apartment building, she made sure to hug close to the walls so as not to bump into anyone; although, her worrying was probably considered tedious at best for this hour of the morning. After casting a silencing spell on her feet, she began to jog towards the local grocers. It had taken a while for her to establish a fail-safe routine to retrieve the required food she needed to continue on with this shitty life. The first time she had performed this process, the anti-theft alarms had nearly sent her into a panic attack and she had frozen - completely forgetting that no one could see her - before dashing off into the night. She did not deviate from this plan, not now, not ever. It was the only amount of control she still held within her life. 

As it had recently, her mind skipped over random topics as she made her way back home – the invisibility cloak full of her chosen items, bumping none too gently against her leg - before ultimately arriving back at the blasted horcrux problem. She had lost all hope of ever discovering what and where the last horcrux was. There were simply too many hurdles to jump to even consider the possibility of retrieving it. Besides, with the remaining muggleborn witches and wizards practically on the endangered species list, leaving only the purebloods and wealthier halfbloods, there really was no need for her to find the damnable object. The people of Wizarding Britain wanted this psychotic sociopath in charge. If that’s how they wanted it, well, Hermione was one-hundred percent willing to tell them to go fuck themselves. Not that she would, because hell, she’d have ten wands pointed in her face if they even caught a whiff of her; and she had already decided she was not about to die from stupidity. 

No, Wizarding Britain – well, wizarding everywhere – was lost now. There would be no saving it. They didn’t want to be saved. Hermione sneered as she pictured the Malfoys practically salivating over the control they were allowed to exert. Especially when it came to their so-called mudblood slaves in the entertainment houses. Fucking barbarians. Although, they were not so biased as to prohibit other less favorable people, in the eyes of Voldemort, to be sentenced to whoring themselves out to Death Eaters. No, she had witnessed one of her best friends, Luna, be repeatedly beaten and ravaged until she had finally broken. Her friend, with the hair that rivaled the very moon and eyes that shown with such pure innocence, had escaped her room and thrown herself off the roof. No one survives a swan dive off the tenth floor. No one. Neville had, of course, been devastated. Hermione tried her utmost best to mend the pieces of his heart back together; but like every other time she tried to help someone, she failed. Neville followed Luna to the grave no more than seventeen days afterward by taking a muggle gun and pulling the trigger. 

There were so many people she had failed in this life: her parents, Harry, Ron and his family, her Professors, Remus and his family, Luna and Neville, the entire fucking world. Sweet Merlin. Tears began to sting her eyes once more, but she brushed them away with a sharp flick of her fingers. Blinking her eyes furiously, she tried to keep the remainder from falling; and as her vision cleared, her heart nearly jumped into her throat. Not ten feet away from her hideout stood three Death Eaters, all dressed in those ghastly black robes and silver masks. Sucking in a sharp breath, and hugging her bag of reserves closer to her chest, she approached the attached alley and plastered herself against the wall. 

“Yeah, mate, I guarantee you magic has been used somewhere around here.”

“What was the spell?”

There was silence as one of them, she still couldn’t identify them, checked over a piece of parchment. “Mmm, there were several. Something minor for hair maintenance, a disillusionment, and breaking down of wards – although the magical signature could not be identified on any of those.”

Hermione felt pride well up within her. Of course they couldn’t identify them. They were her spells. 

A laugh, which sounded oddly familiar to her ears, echoed around her. “If that’s not Granger, then I don’t know who it would be. She had the craziest fucking hair, like a goddamn lion’s mane. I guess she really did belong in Gryffindor after all. I mean, no other House with any self-respect would’ve accepted that. Besides, who else would live in this piece of shite? No one reputable I can assure you.”

The voice finally clicked within Hermione’s whirling brain, crawling beneath her skin and igniting a sudden raging fury that enveloped her body. It sunk heavily into her very bones and lit her from within like Fiendfyre. She would kill him – number five – slowly. Watch as the oily black pit of his soul was ripped from his body, as he lay screaming.  


Draco Malfoy was a very dead man.


	3. Chapter 3

Within seconds her wand was clasped in her fist – her knuckles white with strain. Slowly, she placed the cloak within the confines of her small, beaded purse she kept on her person at all times and edged closer to the lobby entrance doors. Her breath came in sharp pants. Her vision blackening along her peripheral. He was the darkness who chose to defile her friend until there was nothing left of her light. He was the reason she no longer had her friend – her confidante – with her. He was the reason she was alone now. He was a man counting his very last breaths, he just didn’t know it yet. Carefully, she crouched at the entrance and peeked her head around the corner. Her ears tuned back into the conversation, her anger only growing.

“Alright, Malfoy, what do you want to do? Should McLaggen and I wait for you or what? My dad is expecting me back at the Manor so I’d like to wrap this up quickly.”

Rustle of clothing. “No, not tonight, Flint. I’ve got an unavoidable appointment in an hour. I leave it to you both to get the job done. Although, do ensure you don’t kill the bint. I want her strapped up in my quarters for when I return tonight.”

Male snickering. 

“Oh, what do you plan on doing with our little Gryffindor Princess? Surely your cock won’t need wetting so soon after your appointment.”

“Watch your tongue, McLaggen. You are nothing and no one to question me or my business. If I want the slag in my quarters, then, she will be in my quarters. Understood?”

There was a slight pause before another man, Hermione thought it might be Flint – what was his first name? Marcus? – spoke up. “Can one be considered a slag if they’ve never had sex before? I mean, really, I’m having a hard time imagining anyone wanting to get inside the chit’s knickers – let alone her quim.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“Probably not. I heard rumors on both sides during our time at school. Some said she was as prudish as they came and her knickers were probably the home of acromantula webs.” Male laughter. “Others say she gave it up to the tosser, Krum, and a few hold out saying she gave it to the Weasel. All that true love bullshite and what not. Personally, I’m eager to discover the truth myself. There’s something to be said about fucking a bitch and then carving your name into her delicate flesh.”

Hermione blinked. Slowly. Her brain trying to process what had just been said. To say that Hermione was disgusted, well, that would be the biggest understatement of the fucking century. Who was he to question her purity – or possible lack thereof? Just because she had turned down his many unwanted advances? Her fingers flexed around her wand as she slowly stood and stepped around the corner. Her breaths rattled in her chest, puffs of white air escaping between her clenched teeth. Hadn’t she been carved up enough? No? Well, he seemed to fancy the art of it, so maybe he needed a lesson of his own. She would gladly tutor him in that respect. 

“Whatever, McLaggen. Do what you will. Just make sure she ends up in my bed once you’re finished with her. I’ve got to go. Take care of her.” Crack.

Hermione couldn’t even register disappointment at the platinum blond’s departure. No. His death required a certain finesse of which she would need to prepare for. As of this moment, her eyes were only for one man. She began to silently move forward, her arm raising from its place by her side. With a swift flick of her wrist, Flint blinked out of existence. McLaggen jumped, wand raised, mouth slightly parted; but it was too late. In rapid succession, Hermione cast a Stupefy and Petrificus Totalis and watched as the oaf fell to the cobblestoned street in a heap of black, his wand snapping in the process. Her eyes trailed over his rumpled form, her wand dangling listlessly from her curled fingers as she considered what to do with the prick. 

Inspiration struck as she realized the arse could be quite useful to her plans to capture Draco. With a careful swish and flick, his limp body began to rise from the cobblestones; silently waiting for her next command. She turned sharply on her heel and headed back through the doorway – ensuring his head smacked none too gently against the fractured wood – and up to her room. 

With a thump she let Cormac’s body fall to the floor, her wand shooting out thick ropes to wrap around his wrists and attach themselves to a water pipe that was visible through a rather large hole in the wall. Humming quietly to herself, she walked to the bathroom and grabbed the knife from the sink counter; gently tapping the cool blade against her open palm. She took her wand and cast a quick Muffliato on the room before setting the delicate piece of wood on her unkempt bed with its ragged yellow blankets. With knife in hand, she walked towards his prone body and tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor. After waiting several seconds with no sign of waking – really, she was being very generous – she hauled her leg back and, with a grunt, sent her foot flying into his rib cage, a satisfying crack echoing around them. 

Cormac awoke screaming, his body hunched, his arms struggling against the binds that held him. “What the fuck you crazy arsed bint?!”

Hermione scoffed as she knelt in front of the man and removed his mask. Clouded green eyes and a head of wiry, golden hair was revealed to her. She had forgotten that the arrogant little man before her did indeed have a pretty face. It was going to be such a pity to mess it up. 

“Now, now, Cormac. That’s no way to talk to an old school chum is it?”

His eyes widened, “You’re fucking insane. What the hell did you do to Flint?”

Hermione shrugged carelessly, the dirt caked beneath her chipped fingernails suddenly very interesting. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure; which, of course, buggers me to hell and back – as you well know. The insufferable know-it-all and such. Where exactly do Vanished objects go once banished?”

“YOU FUCKING VANISHED HIM?”

Hermione blinked, her eyes wide and glistening with feigned innocence. “Well, what else was I supposed to do with him?”

Vibrant, red splotches began to color his face and neck. She could even hear his teeth grinding. She tsked mentally, thinking of how her parents had absolutely detested the habit. “You really have gone round the bend. So, what do you plan on doing with me?”

Hermione chuckled and leaned closer to his face. “Excellent question! Ten points to Gryffindor! Well…you’re not really a Gryffindor anymore, are you? No, you’ve become nothing more than a lowly pet for those you serve; but I digress. How familiar are you with Malfoy’s schedule?”

Cormac’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “What does he have to do with me being held against my will?”  
Hermione sighed. “I thought you were smart enough to figure this out on your own, but I guess you’re just a pretty face aren’t you? Well, let me educate you. You are going to tell me what Malfoy’s schedule is – don’t look at me like that, you will tell me. The longer you take to answer my questions, the more suffering I shall inflict upon your mortal body before I finally let you perish.”

Cormac scowled. “So, what? No matter what the fuck I tell you I’m going to die? Yeah, no thanks.”

Hermione’s patience was already dangling on a very fine thread, but it finally snapped when his spittle collided with her cheek. Faster than she even knew she could move, her hand clasped his jaw tightly. “I’d watch that tongue of yours before I cut it out. Now. How frequently does Malfoy visit the entertainment houses?”

A growled fuck you was spat forth and Hermione grunted. “No, thank you. I do believe you’ve tried that course of action plenty of times – with no fulfillment, I might add. So, Cormac, did you know that I can make you completely immobile without using any form of magic? No? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t. Muggles are so beneath you. Well, let me give you a little lesson. The human body consists of various major arteries that, when opened, can have a person bleed out – which means die, in case you didn’t know – within minutes. One such artery runs right through your upper thigh. If I were to, I don’t know, cut that artery now you would only have a matter of minutes before your body failed you. Fortunately for you, I know just enough magic to keep you in such a state that you’ll live, but you’d be completely incapacitated. If you continue to misbehave, I promise you, I will cut you so deep your leg will be hanging on in a similar fashion as Nearly Headless Nick’s head. Understood?”

Cormac’s eyes narrowed, but Hermione could see his overly large adam’s apple bob shakily. “You wouldn’t.”  
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she could feel the start of a headache coming on. “Seriously? Do you honestly believe that? I literally just vanished your friend – in front of you; and you think I won’t do this?”

There was silence as the man sitting stiffly in front of her seemed to think on his options. His reply made her think he was either really, really brave or just so completely void of brains it was almost criminal to hurt him. Her warm caramel eyes stared ahead thoughtfully. She was banking that he thought he was being really brave, but truly did not have an ounce of self-preservation in him. Maybe there was still a bit of Gryffindor in him after all. Sighing, she leaned back on her heels, her eyes flicking down to his open robes where she could clearly see his pressed slacks. They would need to be removed. 

Gently setting the knife on the floor beside her right leg, she leaned forward and reached for his belt. Cormac stiffened, Hermione quirked a brow. “Oh hush now. You most certainly aren’t getting that. Now, stop squirming. Yes, that’s it, good boy.” Within seconds she had his belt unclasped, the button free from the latch, and zipper down. She moved further down his legs and grasped the hem of his trousers. “Lift your bum, please.”  
“You seriously think I’m going to help make it easier for you to torture me?”

Hermione sighed. “I figured I’d leave you some choices while you can still make them. Remember I can make you lift by force, if you’d prefer.” 

A couple moments later she felt the tension in his trousers lessen and she tugged. Before long, they were completely off and Hermione stared on in disgust. “No pants? Really? You always were an over-confident little bugger.” Her eyes flicked slightly downward. “Well that doesn’t look quite so confident does it? No worries, we’ll have some fun with that later. After all, there’s something to be said about carving my name in such delicate flesh, isn’t there?” She paused, her teeth slightly nibbling her lower lip. “Actually, my name might be a bit too long to fit on something so… tiny.”

Cormac cringed. “What are you going to do?”

Hermione smiled – she was positive it resembled more of a feral grin than anything. “Are you going to answer my questions?” He shook his head side to side. “Well,” she picked up the knife, “first, I’m going to sever that lovely little artery in your leg I was telling you about. Then we’ll see how things go. It all depends on you really.” 

Faster than Cormac’s eyes could track, she was plunging the knife in his upper thigh and his throat ached from his screams as he felt the ridged metal withdraw from his body. He watched through watery eyes as she retrieved her wand and began muttering under her breath. “What are you doing?” he choked out.

“Just putting a form of stasis charm on the wound. Can’t have you bleeding out quite yet.”

Hermione walked back towards her old school mate and picked up the knife. Slowly, she dragged the wet blade against the rough denim of her jeans, taking precious time to clean it. Once the blood had mostly disappeared she leaned forward and tapped his cheek lovingly.  


“Now, are you ready to talk?”


	4. Chapter 4

Silence – with the exception of his pitiful whimpering – filled the room as Hermione continued to stare at the huddled man before her. She noticed he had tried to curl in on himself, but was unable to move his damaged leg. A smile pulled at her chapped lips, her tongue darting out to wet them – the metallic taste of blood hitting her palate. 

“I’ll ask again,” she whispered sweetly, the knife turning slowly within her grasp, “how often does Malfoy visit the entertainment houses?”

“I thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch at school. Do I really need to explain what fuck you means?” Cormac’s lips pulled into what she was sure he hoped was a snarky grin, but only managed to turn into a pained grimace.

Hermione tsked and gently trailed the smooth edge of the knife against his stomach. Watched as goosebumps rose on his surprisingly unblemished skin. “Tell me, Cormac, how is it you managed to come out of this war without a single scar? It seems unfathomable to me, even if you turned tail and ran to the Death Eaters like a frightened kitten, that you would still be so unmarred. Hardly seems fair don’t you agree?”

She watched as his stomach muscles flexed beneath the blade, her smile growing. “I think…yes, I think that we should remedy that.” 

She moved the blade upwards until the tip lightly kissed his collar bone. Digging in slightly, she dragged the blade down until it met the tip of his pectoral – a near identical image to hers. He didn’t scream, but she hadn’t really intended for him to. No, this was going to be a lesson; and as her friends all knew, she was quite the little professor in her younger days. “You see, I got this very same scar from a slicing hex thrown by one of your comrades when escaping a surprise attack from you lot. I wonder, were you a willing participant in that act? Knowing that it was me who they were hunting? I’m sure you were absolutely giddy at the prospect, weren’t you? Yes…”

She dropped the knife further down his stomach and slashed from beneath his other pectoral until the blade dug into his hip bone – feeling the vibrations within the weapon’s handle as it grinded against bone. Her fingers trailed along the deeper mark, digging in slightly; his blood coating them generously. “This beauty I received in my fifth year by a man name Antonin Dolohov. Do you remember him? He was able to attend the Final Battle; but, alas, he didn’t see the outcome. Would you care to know why?”

Cormac shuddered. Tears leaving jagged tracks down his ashen cheeks. She watched as his chest heaved with exertion as he gritted out, “Why?”

Hermione smiled softly, “Because a spell I discovered on my travels with Harry and Ron siphoned every ounce of blood from his body until nothing remained but a shriveled corpse. Now, I know what you’re thinking. The goody-two-shoes Hermione Granger used dark magic.” She laughed. “Hardly. You see that spell was in a medical text. Used only in dire circumstances when a witch or wizard’s blood is no longer sustainable and a transfusion of sorts needs to occur in order to heal them. What a pity for Dolohov that I didn’t have any blood on my hands…well except his of course.” 

A shudder ran through him and Hermione sighed, “We could end this if you would just tell me what I want to know. There’s no need to be so…Gryffindor.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped on a gasp, “Guess I was sorted right after all.”

Hermione snarled. “You are nothing but a disgrace to our namesake.” Her hand moved with purpose until the object she wanted was grasped firmly in her hand. “Talk or I will carve this up while you still breathe.”

Success. “Three times a week.”

Hermione grinned, “See that wasn’t so hard was it? You could have avoided all of this mess if you would have just come forth to begin with. What I need you to tell me now is what are his…preferences?”

“Preferences?”

Hermione growled. “Yes, you dolt. What kind of girls does he visit at these appointments of his?”

“How the hell should I know? As I’m sure you heard, his business is none of mine.” 

“Now, now. You make it your business to know other people’s affairs. How else would you have managed to memorize my schedule in school to be my ever-present stalker?”

Cormac’s eyes shifted to stare unseeingly behind her. She knew if she didn’t get the answers she needed quickly he would go into shock and there would be nothing to be done then. She gave him a reaffirming squeeze to remind him what, exactly, she held within her grasp. He shifted, his eyes returning to her face. “You.”

Hermione paused. “What?”

“You. You are his preferences. He has this…obsession with you. He wants to own you. Best you, I guess. Always goes on and on about whatever wench he’s fucking that week. Makes her dress up in a Gryffindor uniform and everything. Never works though. He’s always in a foul mood afterwards. I guess no matter how close one of the girls resembles you he knows it’s not you and flips his shit. I do my best to stay out of his way after that. Can’t say the girls are as fortunate.”

Hermione blinked slowly. Her eyes faintly recognizing the blood rivulets that were flowing down his chest and beginning to cover both her hand and his thighs. She shrugged, her right shoulder lifting slightly. “I suppose that makes sense. He was always quite angry when my grades surpassed his. Well, this will make my job all the easier when I get my hands on him; but that doesn’t explain why he visited Luna so often.”

Cormac shrugged, well as best he could. His arms had succumbed to the numbness of being elevated above his head for so long; but his shoulders felt like they’d been set on fire. “He figured that by using her it would draw you out sooner or later. She was the perfect bait in his eyes. Everyone knew how close you two had gotten after the Final Battle. She was just a stepping stone to the final prize. Which, again, was you.”

Hermione could feel the burn of fresh tears stinging her eyes. She had already known it was her fault that Luna had fallen into the enemy’s hands – she hadn’t protected her, hadn’t been prepared for the attack; but to actually know was absolutely devastating. Maybe Luna would have been able to escape if Hermione hadn’t painted a huge target on her back. She swallowed past the thickness in her throat. Her guilt and grief settling heavily in her stomach, nausea welling up within her. She blinked furiously, trying to reign in her emotions. It would not do to lose control of the situation so close to the end.

“Luna was as innocent as they came. Why couldn’t you have displayed this innate Gryffindor courage you seem to have found all of a sudden to help rescue her?”

Cormac scoffed. “Seriously? What the hell was I supposed to do you daft bint? I would be just as dead as she is if I’d even stepped a toe out of line. There’s no fucking chance I would have double crossed those bastards.”

Hermione sat back on her heels, her hand tapping the slick blade against her open palm. “It is our choices…that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

“The fuck? You going all philosophical on me? I see you haven’t completely lost your touch. Still the ever annoying know-it-all. So, where’d you hear that little tidbit?”

Hermione smiled. “Headmaster Dumbledore, of course. Although I wasn’t very fond of him on most occasions, he did – however – say some very potent things once in a while. One of two things I love that man for.”

Cormac sat silently, his green eyes watching the disheveled witch in front of him. She had changed, drastically, over the years. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes framed by large purple bags, her frame all too petite. The war had not been good to her and he was ashamed that the familiar feeling of guilt was beginning to burn his chest. He swallowed, eyes averted. “What’s the second thing?”

His eyes squeezed shut trying to prevent the fresh wave of tears as he felt her lean in closer – her frizzy curls gently skimming along his bare chest. He could feel her lips graze against the shell of his ear and nearly sobbed when the words “I have the Elder Wand” processed through his brain. With a shaky breath he said, “You can’t possibly.”

Hermione chuckled, “Oh, but I most certainly can. You see, Harry – I later found out – died in that Final Battle because he refused to use the power of the Elder Wand to finish the snake-faced bastard off. The wand – that lovely, lovely wand – was hidden within his robes. Funny isn’t it? That the man was so obsessed with Harry that he didn’t even think to search him or take his body. No, he was too excited over his victory, over rounding up the resistance, that he didn’t even take notice of me disapparating with my brother and removing the piece of wood from his jacket.”

Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “Now, I have one final question for you.” 

Cormac shuddered. She could clearly see the fear glistening in his glassy eyes, but his jaw remained firm – chin tilted up in his last bit of defiance – as he awaited her final words. 

“Do you regret? Do you feel guilty for the actions you have taken in this life?”

She watched him think on her words. His tongue darting out from between his dry and cracked lips, running a shaky wet line across them. She watched as he sniffled and his eyes blink the remaining tears away. She watched as his piercing green eyes framed by golden lashes met her smooth brown once more. She watched as his body relaxed and he welcomed the inevitable. She watched as his mouth parted, his answer ringing in the silence. She watched as the sickly green light dispersed from the tip of her vinewood and collided with his center chest cavity.  


She watched through blurry eyes as the light in his faded and his body went limp in the restraints.


	5. Chapter 5

Trembling fingers reached out towards the coarse rope – broken fingernails clawing apart the magically knotted restraints. Carefully, as each arm was freed, she gently laid it next to his prone body. Within minutes, he was lying somewhat peacefully on the chipped and weathered floor. She slowly fell to her knees, sitting back on her heels, as she reached for her wand – the thin piece of wood visibly shaking within her grasp, no matter how much she tried to still it. 

With a few murmured words on a soft exhale, the blood that coated his chest began to slowly disappear – the wounds beginning to knit themselves together. With a grunt she rolled Cormac onto his side and placed the tip of the knife at the collar of his ghastly black robes. Being mindful not to further mar him, she pulled the knife downwards – listening to the almost too-loud sound of ripping cloth and her harsh breathing. Once finished, she laid him down and tugged each half of the robes from his body. 

Standing, knees slightly quivering with small tremors, she made her way to the bed and grabbed the ragged yellow sheet she had been using as a blanket. Yes, it wasn’t in the best condition; but he couldn’t really complain about it now, could he?

With a swish and a flick, his body rose into the air until he settled around the height of her waist. Humming quietly – an obscure song she had memorized from her childhood – she began to gently wrap him within the sheet; ensuring his arms were tucked neatly on his chest. With a small bob of her wand, his body floated towards her makeshift cot – the only clean surface in the space – and began to scramble around her bedroom and bathroom, gathering all of her personal effects and shoving them into the deep confines of her small beaded purse. 

After taking a final sweep of the room, she stared at the wall – her eyes flicking to the pool of blood that remained on the floor. Thinking quickly, she dabbed her fingers within the now cooling liquid, and began to run her fingers across the bumpy surface. Fifteen letters later, she was standing next to the bed – her hand lazily dragging over her jeans to remove the blood – staring up at the words You’re Next, Ferret. With a smirk pulling at her lips, she tightened her hold on her bag and placed her right hand on Cormac’s folded ones. With a deep breath, she pictured where she wanted to go and with a pop they had disappeared. 

Her vision swam in the pitch black of the transition, her insides squirming as she maintained her hold on her old schoolmate’s hands. What felt like hours later, but was only a couple of seconds in truth, they appeared in a densely wooded area. A sad smile found its way on her face, her eyes burning with fresh tears as she remembered the last time she had been here. The Forest of Dean. She had spent what seemed like years in this Forest with her two best friends, hunting down horcruxes, scavenging for food, trying to stay alive. Even though Ron had left them – to later return sulkily once his pride had been put in check – and even though they were soon after caught by the Snatchers, it had been nice to spend time with just her boys. She hadn’t known at that point what little time she had left with them. 

With a grunt, her voice gravelly from her strained attempts of holding back her sobs, she laid Cormac’s body on the leafy floor and pointed her wand about five feet out. With a resounding Expulso – what else was she supposed to do? – the forest floor before her exploded. Dirt flew through the air haphazardly, her hands quickly coming up to cover her face. Peering through her fingers, she figured one more should do it and then the crude grave she was creating would be complete. With a sharp flick and muttered word, the ground exploded once more and Hermione sighed. Carefully, she levitated Cormac’s body one final time and gently placed him within the rich earth – only adjusting his rather long limbs to ensure he would fit properly. Keeping an ear open for any passing presence, she began to cover his body in the remaining soil until she could no longer see his lifeless form. Gathering a few golden and orange-red leaves, she began to arrange them in the form of a small wreath just above his head. 

Bowing her head – chin nearly touching her upper chest – she prayed to a God she hadn’t spoken to in years. 

“Master of the skies and of the earth, I ask for Your forgiveness.  
Del, who’s light and healing waters cleanse the darkness in all things.   
Scorch the sins of Beng from his soul and welcome him into Your warm embrace.   
His heart is true, but clouded with arrogance and cowardice.  
Lead him to where the brave at heart dwell, where chivalry carries on, where love never fades, and hope never dies.   
Lead him to his final resting place – where he may know every peace.”

Tears leaked from her eyes as she pulled a jar from her purse. With a soft whisper and gentle swish of her wand, bluebell flames danced from the tip of her wand and into the glass container. Tightening the overly dented aluminum lidding set with small holes, she set the substitute candle next to the wreath and stood – lightly dusting the dirt that had caked on her jeans alongside the dried blood. With a shaky breath, taking a moment to feel the wind brush across her skin as if delicately kissing her soul, she clenched her purse in her left hand and her wand in the other and spun on the spot. 

Within seconds she was in another wooded location and she took off running like the hounds of hell were chasing after her – which, honestly, wasn’t a bad analogy where Death Eaters were concerned. She wasn’t sure for how long she ran, but she continued on, even when her lungs felt as if they were burning and on the verge of seizing up. She angrily swiped at the tears staining her cheeks, the cool wind causing them to slightly chap – worsening whatever situation she had going on with her lips. After what seemed like ages, she finally stumbled upon a rather nondescript park. Thankfully with it being surely past midnight, it appeared to be abandoned. She dodged the swings and slides, running with the remaining energy she had towards the woods that bordered the child’s haven. She ducked and twisted past tumbled logs and broken branches, only slowing after tripping over her shoelace. She had made it to a point where she could no longer see the park before collapsing against a tree. Her chest heaving from exertion, her breath forming small white clouds in front of her. 

Quiet sobs broke the night air, her hands finding themselves clenched within her tangled locks. Her legs collapsed from beneath her, her throat sore from raw sobs. She could feel the twigs and rocks digging like little pins into her kneecaps as her body began to shake. She was broken from her misery – of the visions of Cormac’s life fading from his bright green eyes – when a distant crack was heard. Her mind raced. Thoughts of being captured, tortured, abused all floating through her mind like a horrendous nightmare. 

Her brown eyes swept across the dark landscape, her breathing coming in short pants. They couldn’t have found her, surely? Fuck if she knew, but she wasn’t about to wait around and see. With energy she no longer knew she possessed, she quickly got to her feet and took off into the night. Running. It was all she ever did anymore. She was so bloody tired of running, but she knew she could never stop. Stopping was a death sentence for her now. Never before had she appreciated the quiet sanctity of Hogwarts’ library more than she did right this moment.

She stumbled in the dark – her thoughts scattered to the wind – the waning moon not providing much light for her path. She cursed under her breath after catching the toe of her trainer on a rather large rock nearly sending her careening into the adjacent tree, face first. She continued to run, until she could run no more. Her legs broke from beneath her. Her body curling in on itself to protect what it could from the cold.

Slowly, Hermione raised a trembling hand to her mouth, her tongue seeming to grow three times as large as she felt the burn of bile in the back of her throat. After several attempts, she finally managed to calm down enough to swallow successfully without gagging. Her eyes drifted towards the night sky – thousands upon thousands of stars glittering peacefully next to their brother, the moon. At least the moon was never alone. Unlike her. Always and forever, it seemed, alone. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the forest, a tired smile tugging at her lips. She had always loved the woods, well nature in general had always been appealing to her. Bringing her a form of peace she could never obtain anywhere else – well, besides her beloved books of course. She supposed she had her parents to thank for that. 

Within time, she could feel herself slipping into the clutches of exhaustion-induced sleep. She tried to fight it, but her eyes refused to open – merely light muscle twitches in her eyelids. Her teeth lightly clattered against one another in the cold night air. Arms tightly clutching her purse and wand to her chest as she fought for the remaining warmth hidden within the ragged Chudley Cannons sweater. It was just as her breathing leveled and warmth began to envelop her tired bones that she heard a voice. A sweet, sweet voice whispering her name like a prayer. Not her last name, her first name. One she hadn’t heard said in such a loving voice in so, so long she thought she might weep. Somewhere deep inside she knew that voice, she was sure of it; but at this moment she didn’t have the mental capacity to figure it out. 

Besides, a voice so full of kindness and love was surely owned by an Angel.


	6. Chapter 6

With a groggy sigh, Hermione curled in further on herself forming a tight ball of boney limbs. Calloused fingers reached up to her eyes and halfheartedly rubbed the crystallized sleep from her lashes. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open – her sight still blurry from the best sleep she had had in ages. After several more attempts her eyes began to focus and the sight before her was not what she expected. Instead of trees lit up by the moon and fresh wind blowing against her; she was in a dark room, lying on a bed that was certainly not hers. She shot up, her legs quickly pulled to her chest. Her eyes darted around furiously, chest beginning to heave with harsh breaths.

Air. She needed air desperately. Her throat constricted, numb fingers clawed the prickling skin of her neck to relieve the ache. Sounds, like that of angry claps of thunder, echoed in her ears. Her heart racing wildly within her chest. Tears leaked from her eyes like a dripping faucet as she continued her failing attempts at gaining what she needed. Crouched in the upper corner of the strange bed, her body began to seize, coated in a cold sweat, as she rocked back and forth. Death. She was going to die.

A door creaked open to her left. Her eyes stared unseeing into the spinning darkness. Suddenly, a light began to appear out of the corner of her eyes. She whipped her head to the left, a looming shadow hovering in the doorway. Boney hands reached upwards and slowly removed the hood hiding its face. Brittle screams ripped through her throat as she threw herself further against the wall – staring into green eyes hidden behind wiry golden hair. The ghost-like figure descended upon her; her arms flying frantically to ward off Death’s touch. Her broken voice whispering I’m sorry over and over.

“Hermione! Calm down! You’re safe!”

The voice sounded familiar, the deep baritones resonating in her soul. She had recently heard this voice, whispering her name like a lover’s caress. No! She mentally shouted, her hands coming to claw at her face. Death was cunning. He would trick you into taking your very last breath. A broken whimper tore through her chapped and bleeding lips. Her lungs constricting painfully in her chest. Hands, cold and damp, reached for her. She wasn’t strong enough to fight back. Death had finally claimed her soul as those hands wrapped around her tightly, their bodies gently rocking back and forth.

“Hush, Hermione. I’ve got you. Take this.”

A chilled bottle was pressed to her lips. She refused to open her mouth for Death’s poison. She wouldn’t. A deep sigh sounded to her right, the warm air causing small hairs to daintily brush against the shell of her ear. Her body tensed as a hand gently took her jaw and applied enough force to open it against her will. Suddenly, the taste of peppermint filled her mouth, hitting her palate like a crashing wave and soothing her throat. Within seconds she felt her breath catch up to her overworked lungs, her body’s trembling slowly ending. The raging storm within her brain began to subside as the unknown man began to speak soft reassurances.

“That’s it, Hermione. Let the potion do its work. Everything will be okay. You’re safe with me. Just breathe.”

With time, his voice began to register as someone she knew, but her brain couldn’t comprehend who exactly it was. Had she been captured? No, that didn’t sound right. She was not so far gone in the aftereffects of her panic attack to blatantly ask the man who he was outright. She tried to move her head, so as to see, but a firm – yet gentle – hand held her to his rather firm chest. He certainly didn’t speak, or hold, her like a prisoner. There was clearly some form of affection in his voice. Her mind whirled with thoughts of what could be happening. She had obviously passed out in the woods last night – tonight? – and been caught unaware if her memory was serving her well, which it usually did.

Before she could question the man, she felt the grip of sleep begin to drag her under. She felt her body being slowly lowered to the soft mattress beneath her. Fingers lovingly brushing curls away from her face with a whispered Sweet Dreams echoing in her ears. With a heavy sigh, her body exhausted, her heavy lids closed. The faint melody of a violin beginning to play in the distance, drawing her into her mental pensieve.

_The violinists continued to strum along their enchanted strings as couples swayed gently on the dance floor. Hermione was safely tucked within the arms of Remus, their bodies moving slowly across the magical floor the twins had constructed. Laughter rang in her ears as Remus favored her with an impeccable expression of one Minerva McGonagall. Although the elderly witch was one of her favorite professors, the woman did have a knack for being quite the scary woman in both her early and present years._

_“Oh Remus, you are positively dreadful. If Professor McGonagall overhears you, you’ll be tossed in detention regardless of your age.”_

_Remus chuckled, “That, my dear, is indeed a frightening thought.”_

_Hermione shook her head, quiet giggles breaking through as her eyes scanned the vibrant crowd – finally landing on a couple so entwined with one another they were almost one being. “Bill and Fleur look so happy together.”_

_“Indeed. I’m glad Molly finally came to her senses with the witch. Fleur is quite brilliant if the mother-hen would just let her breathe.”_

_Hermione snorted, nearly choking on her own saliva. Burying her face in her old Professor’s dress robes. Everyone knew Molly’s pension for trouble if she believed her child’s chosen partner wasn’t worth their salt. Although annoying, it was a little endearing to see how much that woman truly loved her children. “How’s Tonks? Heard from her at all?”_

_Remus sighed, his brow furrowing, causing the rather large scar running up his cheek to stretch. “Not in a week.”_

_Hermione squeezed her partner’s hand, “Don’t worry. She’s quite clumsy – no one can deny that – but she is a brilliant witch and Auror and can take care of herself. Besides, she has Kingsley and Moody with her. She’ll be absolutely fine.”_

_Remus smiled, his frown slightly easing. “You’re absolutely right, you brilliant little witch. I shouldn’t worry so much, but Moony gets a bit anxious when she’s gone.”_

_Hermione nodded in understanding, “Well of course he does. She’s your mate and it only makes sense to worry about the love of your life – even if it is a tad bit unnecessary.”_

_She gave his hand one final squeeze before stepping back as the music came to a close. “I’m going to get a drink and check on Harry – he seems to be having quite the interesting conversation with Luna’s father. You, meanwhile, should probably go remove the twins from the punch bowl before the infamous Weasley matron sees how much firewhiskey they’re dumping in there.”_

_Remus glanced over his shoulder to see the twins were indeed, not so secretly, pouring rather large amounts of various alcohol into the punch. He sighed, kissed the top of her slightly less messy curls, and made his way over to the red-headed mischief makers with a parting smile. Hermione watched him go with a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Remus had been such a blessing in her life. Yes, they had formed a connection after she discovered his secret in her third year; but when she had been told her parents had passed away, he had immediately taken her in as if she were a daughter to him. Although she practically told her boys everything, sometimes she just needed to be held by the man she considered her adoptive father; he had always been there for her._

_She quickly blinked away the slight burning sensation creeping behind her eyes as she remembered that wretched time and turned swiftly to the non-tainted beverages. She filled her small plastic cup to the brim with whatever festive punch was in the bowl and let the cool liquid calm her parched throat. Turning on her heel, the scenery changed in a blur before stilling and her eyes landed on the man she was seeking. Alone, at a table tucked away in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, sat her very best friend – her brother. His black hair, messy as it always was, refusing to follow the rulings of a brush. His bright green eyes staring vacantly into the thinning crowd as everyone wandered off for their beds. She watched him for several seconds, noting his sullen look – an open book in front of him. With a shake of the head she approached him._

_“Now, Harry, this is absolutely no time for moping!”_

_Harry blushed, a hand shyly rubbing the back of his neck. “I was not moping!”_

_“You most certainly were! Now, what’s got you upset? Does your head hurt?”_

_“No…you wouldn’t understand, Hermione.”_

_A gasp broke the silence, her hand slapping against her chest. “Me not understand something? Her eyes narrowed into her infamous glare known to reflect the fiery pits of hell – delighting in Harry shivering, it never failed. “Try me.”_

_Harry sighed and cast his eyes downward to his clasped hands. “Cho has already been asked to the Yule Ball.”_   
_Hermione stared, hard, for several seconds. “Seriously? This is what you’re upset about? There are hundreds of girls here and you’re upset because one Ravenclaw turned you down?”_

_Harry’s shoulders slumped, a small grumble escaping his chest. “I really like her.”_

_Hermione sat beside her despairing friend and took his hands in hers. “I’m sorry. I know you really like her, but what’s done is done. Do you have anyone else in mind?”_

_Harry shrugged, his expression growing even more despondent. Hermione sighed, her fingers gently tapping against her chin. Tap, tap, tap tap tap. Harry began to fidget in the silence, his eyes flicking up to stare at her face. She made a startled noise, causing him to nearly fall out of his chair._

_“What? What is it?”_

_Hermione beamed, bouncing excitedly in her chair. “Luna!”_

_Harry made a face causing Hermione to stiffen. “What? What’s wrong with her?”_

_“She’s a bit…odd. Can you imagine her dancing?”_

_“Seriously? Like you could dance any better, Mister Clubfoot?” Hermione snarked, her arms crossing over her chest. “Since when are you so shallow? Scared you’ll be made fun of for being seen with Looney Lovegood?”_   
_“I-I’m not shallow! I just…I just…I don’t know. You’re right, she’s our friend and would definitely be a step up above the rest.”_

_Hermione clapped and stood. “Of course I’m right. Telling me I wouldn’t understand something. Hmph! Now, get your sad little bum off to bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”_

_She kissed the top of his head and spun on her heel to leave. Once again the scenery changed in a maddening blur, landing her in the rows of books in the library. With a soft smile, she trailed her fingers along the old spines as she made her way down the aisle. Suddenly she was caught around the waist, large hands gripping her hips firmly and gently placing her chest against the wooden shelves. She moaned as his front made contact with her back, his own hips grinding into her bum. Her hands lifted and reached behind her, wrapping around a neck, bringing his face closer to her throat._

_She sighed blissfully as his full lips began pressing warm kisses on her skin, nibbling her earlobe like it was his favorite dessert. His hands ran up and down her sides, cold chills running down her spine in the process. She shivered as she pressed against him harder._

_A deep chuckle sounded next to her ear, “Excited are we, love?”_

_Hermione’s response was a mangled groan as she turned her head and brought her lips crashing into his. They continued ravenously, he quickly spinning her to face him. Pressing her further into the shelving as he grabbed her left leg and hoisted it above his hip, allowing her to anchor it there._

_“You’ve been quite the naughty little girl, Hermione.” He whispered, causing Hermione to freeze – surprised. That voice. She moved her head away from the figure standing so close to her and looked up at his face. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart beating furiously as realization dawned on her. Shaking her head, she began to retreat hastily, the boy staring at her with utter confusion._

_“Hermione?”_

_She shivered, causing her to trip over her own feet. She clenched her eyes tightly as she felt herself falling downwards, felt strong arms wrap around her waist securely. When she didn’t feel the thump of landing on a hard surface, she opened her eyes – slowly – and peered into piercing blue eyes._

Startling awake, her eyes shot open to meet those same blue eyes from her dream. The gaze of a man she hadn’t seen in years. One she had thought either long dead or a traitorous bastard – she had never discovered his whereabouts.

Opening her mouth – eyes glistening with unshed tears, her throat burning – she whispered with utmost heartbreak:

“Theo?”


End file.
